“Reb Moishe, how are you?” A wan smile spread across the bearded face of the aged patriarch.
“A little weak”, he whispered hoarsely in Yiddish. He bore himself with an air of distincton. Was he not the oldest patient in the Montefiore Hospital? A hundred and nine years old yesterday. Why, even the President was celebrating his birthday. He boasted that he sent Mr. Roosevelt a wire wishing him many, many returns of the day. “May you reach to my years and more,” he said.
His eyes for a moment lost their vacuous look. They seemed to recall the happy days of his youth in the tiny Russian-Polish town of Azreyan.
The shiny black yarmelke swayed as his grey head danced in time to the folk song he hummed so softly. The thread of recollection snapped. Again his eyes stared into space with that empty far-away look.
Reb Moishe Penn puffed on a short black stogie as his visitor wished him the traditional blessing, “May you live to be a hundred and twenty years.” He confessed he likes Garbo, enjoys his schnapps and would like to go for an airplane ride.
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The Archive of the Jewish Telegraphic Agency includes articles published from 1923 to 2008. Archive stories reflect the journalistic standards and practices of the time they were published.
